


i've got friends in low places

by venomedveins



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Cussing, It's pretty vanilla compared against my other fics, M/M, Rehearsal Dinner Crashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 11:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3608289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomedveins/pseuds/venomedveins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agron, a mechanic from the wrong side of the tracks, who runs a lucrative parking lot fight club. </p><p>Nasir, a painted doll of the mafia and newly engaged to Caesar. </p><p>Agron crashes their rehearsal dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i've got friends in low places

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno. I listen to too much country music. I felt like this was a thing.

Agron runs the red light, hemi engine roaring as he pulls into the boat house parking lot. He doesn’t even try and park straight, blocking at least four cars as he puts it in gear, hoping out. Behind him, the Honda Civic headlights sweep across the pavement, tires screeching as Spartacus stops. He’s out before Agron even gets to the front side walk. 

“I know you’re upset. Agron, I understand, but you can’t do it like this.” Spartacus yells, having to sprint to catch up with Agron’s wide gait. “He deserves better than you crashing his rehearsal.”

He swivels around to block Agron’s path, putting his hands forcefully on Agron’s shoulders. Their height difference has never been more apparent as Agron snarls in Spartacus’ face, green eyes glinting in the parking lot lights. Across his nose and cheeks are bright pink, half from fury and half from the alcohol he’s been pounding. 

“Don’t do this. We can make a plan, something else.” Spartacus tries to calamity, reason, but it all falls on deaf ears. 

“Fuck off,” Agron rips his arm out of Spartacus’ grasp, large fist curling over the front door handle. 

“Agron,” Crixus shouts, Naevia right behind him as they run from their car haphazardly turned in next to Spartacus’. It’s a mock race, but Agron gets inside the front door first, tearing up the entry way and into the large hall. 

Huge baskets of flowers hang from the ceiling, filling the air with a nauseating scent of lavender and pine. The aisle lined with a soft gold cloth that leads up to where the alter is, adorned with another thousand flowers and tiny glowing orbs. It’s beautiful, and so fucking intricate that Agron almost has to pause, in awe of Nasir’s ability to turn an ugly, old room into art. 

There are at least sixty people standing around, holding long flutes of champagne glasses, dressed in expensive suits and dresses, all turning wide eyes to stare at the foursome in the doorway. Agron has on his leather jacket, tank top clinging against his chest, blow out knee on his jeans, as his eyes roam over them, finally landing on his prize. 

He’s wearing a suit, an actually fitted black tux sans the bow tie, with the first three buttons undone, hinting at his sharp collarbones. Nasir has woven tiny white flowers against the crown of his carefully braided hair, one hand holding a champagne flute (and isn’t that fucking ironic when Agron knows he fucking hates that. Would prefer cheap, boxed wine over anything as expensive) and with the other arm, he’s got it wrapped around Caesar’s waist. 

They both kind of freeze, Agron and Nasir, eyes calculating and roaming over each other. It’s never been more apparent how much Agron doesn’t fit into this life until now. He’s got engine grease under his fingernails, and there is a bruise on his ribs (hidden under thin gray material) where he got jabbed in a parking lot brawl. Nasir looks clean, his own secret tattoos hidden away, the navel ring Agron loves to trace with his tongue a secret. 

Stepping around shocked aristocrats and their upturned-nose wives, Agron parts the crowd with his body, smirking the whole way. 

“It seems I have arrived fashionably late and sorely underdressed.” 

His deep voice bounces around the now silent room, even the string band in the corner has stopped playing. 

“Agron.” Nasir’s voice gives nothing away, tilting his head as Caesar whispers into it. “What are you doing here?”

“I just came to give my congratulations to the happy couple.” 

Spartacus, Crixus, and Naevia trail behind him, fanning out when Agron finally reaches the pair. Heated eyes slide down Nasir’s body, taking in the quick breath and painfully full mouth. Agron remembers everything about this body, from the dimples on Nasir’s back to the soft indent of his knees to the way he looks spread out on his stomach, ass up and gaping. 

With a coy cocking of his head, Agron raises an eyebrow at Nasir and marvels as the blush spreads across his tan cheeks. And isn’t the just fucking beautiful? Agron slips one large hand around Caesar’s, plucking the champagne flute from his fingers, indulged at the fear clearly written in Caesar’s large blue eyes. He would be wise not to test Agron right now. 

“Have we done toasts yet? Because I have one that I’ve been working on for a while.” Agron’s voice is so loud, turning to look around at the crowd. Crassus is in the corner, whispering harshly to someone on his phone.

“We’ve already done them,” Caesar’s voice is hard, even if he looks like he’s about to piss himself. 

“Oh, well fuck,” Agron whips his head back around, “Well, you can never have too many good wishes.” He raises the glass and Nasir grimaces, slipping his arm from around Caesar. 

“To the happiest couple I know,” Agron’s voice slurs slightly, that whiskey from half an hour ago hitting him, “so happy in fact that Nasir agreed to marry him on the phone while I was fucking him from behind. Isn’t that something? He even let me finish in him, as a courtesy of course, before running off to his engagement party.”

“Agron!” Spartacus hisses, stepping closer. Nasir’s eyes are huge, mortified, as his own champagne glass trembles in his hand. 

“What? It’s true,” Agron shrugs, waving his glass haphazardly, “Isn’t that right, Nasir? That’s your favorite way to do it. When you’re on your knees and have your-“

He’s cut off as Spartacus grabs his arm, yanking him back. Champagne sloshes onto the floor, but Agron doesn’t drop his glass. Instead, he tips it back, swallowing the bubbling gold liquid all in one go. 

“I think you’ve had enough,” Naevia hisses, holding onto Agron’s other arm. She’s just as scary as her husband, who glares from over his shoulder. 

“You need to leave.” Caesar’s voice is rough as he holds onto the back of Nasir’s arm. “Now.”

“Of course. Hate to dine and dash.” Agron nods, accepting his clear dismissal by Caesar’s hand. 

Shaking Naevia’s arm off of him, Agron reaches out to grasp Nasir’s hand, curling his fingers over his. It’s still a fucking marvel how long Nasir’s fingers are, ring glittering in the light. Nasir stares up at him, mouth silent and in a line, eyes searching across Agron’s face for something - anything - and then Agron lays his lips against Nasir’s knuckles, and it seems to burst forth. 

“He might have all the money in the world,” Agron murmurs, leaning up to press his nose right against Nasir’s temple, “but he won’t ever love you like I do.”

And then he’s gone, strutting out of the hall and into the colder night air. It feels like a fucking punch straight to his throat, a thousand emotions bubbled up until he swears he’s going to puke. The only thing that keeps him from it is the quick footsteps behind him, his name hissed loudly. 

Nasir is hurrying after him, stopping when he reaches the side of the truck. He looks livid, blush on his cheeks for a whole different reason. 

“What the fuck was that? What is wrong with you?” Nasir nearly screams, ignoring how Agron’s stomach flexes when he runs his hands into his hair. 

“What do you want me to say?” Agron snaps back, “Congratufuckinglations Nasir. I hope you’re so fucking happy.”

“You said you didn’t want anything serious. You said you weren’t into relationships. You were the hit and quit it guy,” Nasir pants, crowding up into Agron’s space, “You made that fucking choice.”

“Made that choice? I didn’t even get a choice!” Agron pins Nasir between himself and the cold metal of the Chevy, staring down at him. 

“I waited and waited, through all of your fucking bullshit, and you never said anything!” Nasir shouts, shoving his finger into Agron’s chest, “You never said anything. You just kept fixing your god damn cars and doing your fucking bullshit fighting shit.”

Agron doesn’t justify it with a verbal response. Instead, he grips the sides of Nasir’s face, fingers curled tightly in his hair as he dives down for a kiss. It’s rough, brutal as Nasir bites at him but Agron’s teeth are stronger and sharper and Nasir goes up on his toes, gets his nails under the back of Agron’s leather jacket, racks them down hard across his shoulders. 

It turns even more, Nasir’s back hitting the cold metal as Agron tugs his head up, fucks his tongue into Nasir’s mouth and lines their hips up. Nasir has missed this so much, the overwhelming storm that is Agron, suffocating him and unfurling him from that cold dark place he retreats to when he’s with Caesar. With Agron, everything feels bright and hot. 

Pulling away, Agron presses his forehead to Nasir’s, fingers turning gentle as they stroke the sides of his face, feeling Nasir’s tears. He wants to wrap him up again, keep him sheltered away from the world, like that night they spent laying in the bed of the truck in that field, tracing stars in the sky and on their skin.

“I will tell you I love you every single fucking minute of every fucking day,” Agron murmurs, breathing it right up against his lips, “if you don’t do this.”

“But-“ Nasir chokes out. Up close, Agron’s eyes are little emerald bursts, half kelly and chartreuse and lime and jasmine. 

“Baby,” Agron says the pet name like it’s a prayer, half pleading and half unapologetic loyalty. 

Nasir can’t form words, barely notices when Spartacus, Crixus, and Naevia appear behind Agron’s shoulders. They look on silently, but Spartacus’ eyes are calculating - trying to decide if Nasir needs help or not. He drops his head when Nasir’s hand slides up the back of Agron’s neck, exhaling across his mouth. 

“Take me away from here.” Nasir knows it’s a surrender, and yet he’s okay with that. Surrendering to Agron feels like heaven. 

Agron grips his hand, pulls him back from the truck door before opening it. Nasir steals one last kiss, eyes staring and calculating. Agron helps him with a hand on his elbow, half raising Nasir from the ground and into the truck because of the lift kit. Nasir slides across the leather seat, taking up his usual spot on the passenger side, shoe against the dashboard. Agron’s about to climb in next to him when Spartacus presses something to his chest. 

“Spartacus,” Agron begins to shake his head, staring at the wad of cash. 

“Take it and go. They’ll come after him,” Spartacus doesn’t leave it up for argument. 

“We’ll call you from the road.” Agron nods once, reaching forward to clasp Spartacus in a quick hug before swinging up into the truck. Naevia is whispering to Nasir on the other side of the truck, pressing something to his palm before backing away.

With one last look, Agron pulls out onto the highway, one hand on the wheel and one on Nasir’s thigh. It’s the first time he’s taken a breath in what feels like months, listening to Nasir’s giggles beside him.

“When we get married, can you please make sure to write a better speech than that?” Nasir asks, pulling flowers from his hair and dropping them out of the window. 

“You wanna marry me?” Agron asks, raising a crooked grin towards him. “You wanna be my little man?”

“Yeah,” Nasir bites his bottom lip, breaking into a grin when Agron tugs him over, fits him under his arm. “But only if you never call me that again.”

“Good.”


End file.
